


Come Back Again

by omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Car Sex, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hand Jobs, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Sex Curse, Sex Pollen, Top Sam Winchester, as a treat, readers can have a little 'Wincest Under Duress'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: If he’s being honest, the sex spells probably don’t even make the top ten of Worst Spells To Get Hit By While With Your Brother. Just a bit of one-on-one time with your hand… What was so bad about that? It was awkward, but never life-threatening.Which is why he doesn’t panic when Sam walks out of a cloud of witchy glitter and flower petals and the only noticeable difference in his appearance is the tent in his pants.OR: Sam gets hit with a sex curse that won't let him touch himself
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 91
Kudos: 346





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am once again writing something that isn't my WIPs. 
> 
> Thank you to metarachel for the beta read!! One day I'll use ellipses properly. (But not today)

If you spend enough time pointing guns at witches and whatnot, eventually you’re going to get hit by one of the less-than-savoury spells. Every hunter has been there. Just a perk of the lifestyle.

And by perk, he obviously means the exact opposite of a perk.

Dean’s had his skin turned blue, he’s had his bones go all brittle, he’s watched his hair fall out piece by piece. He even spent one weird week with a third eye right in the middle of his forehead. And those aren’t even the _bad_ spells. The bad ones come with words like _agony_ and _boiling alive_ and _inside out._

If he’s being honest, the sex spells probably don’t even make the top ten of Worst Spells To Get Hit By While With Your Brother. Just a bit of one-on-one time with your hand… What was so bad about that? It was awkward, but never life-threatening.

Which is why he doesn’t panic when Sam walks out of a cloud of witchy glitter and flower petals and the only noticeable difference in his appearance is the tent in his pants.

(He doesn’t panic, but he _does_ laugh. Because how can he not?)

They root out the rest of the coven, Sam going pinker and pinker with every passing second, and then Dean gets into Baby’s front seat and Sam gets into the back and Dean says, “Don’t get a spot on her.” Sam just grunts in response, and Dean laughs again and everything is normal and fine and they’ve done this before and there’s nothing to it. He’s just glad he’s not the one in the backseat this time, because trying to jerk off with Sam behind the wheel of his car is like experiencing a boner killer without the actual boner killing. It feels _wrong._ And that’s speaking from experience that he wishes he didn’t have.

He turns the radio up, because he’s a good brother like that.

And then he drives.

And drives.

And… drives.

He drives for long enough that he has to fight the urge to check the rearview. (That’s not a sight he needs right now. Or ever.)

He drives for long enough that he starts actively listening for the sounds Sam’s making, instead of politely blocking them out: tiny, frustrated little grunts. If Dean listens very, very carefully, he can make out the occasional slide of skin-on-skin.

He drives for long enough that he almost asks if everything’s okay. This isn’t a normal amount of time to spend on a quick session of self-relief.

And then there’s the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled up, and Sam clambers over the back of the seat into the front, and Dean laughs out loud—at himself and Sam both. Everything is fine, it’s always fine. He tosses Sam a pocket-pack of Kleenex.

“If there’s a mess back there, you’re walking home,” he jokes, because that’s the next step in this little routine.

But Sam misses his cue. Instead of laughing and telling him to _go to hell,_ he just grunts and turns into the passenger door, curling up with his forehead against the window.

 _Okay,_ Dean thinks. _He’s embarrassed._

And that’s that.

Until it’s not.

They get another twenty minutes down the road and he can’t help but notice that Sam’s… uncomfortable. He keeps shifting in his seat. Twitching. Rolling his forehead against the glass.

And then he unclips his seatbelt and clambers over the seat again, still without saying a word.

“Sam?” Dean checks.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters, which is close enough to normal that Dean turns the radio back up, because he doesn’t know what else to do. A sex curse requiring more than one round isn’t unheard of, but if the witches had been strong enough to concoct something like that, then it’s possible they threw some other hinky shit in the mix as well.

Sam’s back there for even longer this time.

Dean does his best not to panic.

Which basically means he panics, but quietly.

“Sam?” he checks for the fifth time.

This time Sam replies. “It’s not working,” he says, so quiet Dean has to turn the radio back down. A decision he immediately regrets when he hears the sound of clothes rustling and Sam panting. He battles back the flurry of images _that_ presents.

“Okay,” he says, trying to sound steady. “Okay, that’s… That’s, uh…” He’s not sure what that is, really. It’s new, is what it is. And new is never good. He’s not sure how to ask which bit isn’t working. Obviously Sam knows what to do, so the situation at hand—literally—has to be because of something… else.

Then Sam makes a tiny, pained noise, and Dean automatically looks in the rearview, because sex spells are uncomfortable and yucky but they shouldn’t be painful, and Sam in pain is just, that’s just, it’s just _not on._

“Sam?”

He catches a glimpse of rumpled clothes. Sam’s belt discarded on the seat next to him. His jeans open at the fly. And he can see Sam’s hands, big and familiar and—he tries to let the information wash over him without coming in to shore—cupping his dick.

He only looks for a few seconds, but it’s enough to see that Sam is inexplicably, unexpectedly… soft.

“Sam?” he calls again.

Sam doesn’t respond, just does up his fly and scrambles over the seat again, curling into his usual spot. But this time Dean’s really looking and he can see that there’s… _What the hell?_

There’s the unmistakable bulge of an erection in Sam’s jeans.

“What the fuck was in the powder?” he asks, and Sam groans and curls even further in on himself, his hands staying well clear of his crotch. “Sam?” he presses. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not working,” Sam mutters again, and then he’s reaching for himself and Dean should really be looking away, he really shouldn’t be watching his brother— _his brother!_ —as he shoves his hand down the front of his pants. He shouldn’t be watching the tell-tale curl of his fingers beneath the denim, the way the crotch is bulging even worse now with a hand down there as well.

And then Sam lets out a high-throated sound that definitely can’t have been a whimper, right? And he yanks his hand back out and the bulge in his jeans isn’t there anymore except, what the fuck, even as Dean watches it’s coming back.

“Sam?” he tries again, sounding hysterical and feeling kind of hysterical too.

“How far are we from the bunker?” Sam says, speaking like he’s trying to use as little of his lungs as possible.

“Hours!” Dean near-yells. He’s doing a very poor job of keeping his eyes on the road because Sam’s been, what? Has he been trying to jerk off this whole time and _failing?_

“Christ. Ah, fuck.” Sam pitches forward, and his forehead lands with a _thump_ on the dash. He presses his palms to either side of his head but doesn’t push back up, just stays tense there, arms flexing steadily beneath his jacket.

“Have you tried—” Dean starts, and then comes to an immutable stop when he finds he has no fucking clue where to take that sentence.

“I’ve tried everything,” Sam says anyway, fingers turning to useless claws against Baby’s glovebox. He scrabbles blindly, back arching, and then makes a high-pitched groan (not a scream, _not a scream)_ and digs the heel of his hand into the bulge of his jeans.

The bulge disappears and Sam thrashes in his seat, this time making very definitely pained noises.

 _“Fuck,_ ” he says, which isn’t exactly a new word in Sam’s vocabulary, but it has no place here, that’s for sure. There’s usually no reason for Sam to be cursing up a storm in the passenger seat after a successful hunt.

 _“What’s going on!”_ Dean demands. And actually, you know what? He doesn’t want to know. Except of course he does, because this is an injury, right? This is _Sam,_ and Sam is _injured,_ and these are the symptoms. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes it fucking hurts!” Sam hisses, and his hand lifts off the dash almost instinctively, and he reaches for himself but stops halfway, fingers clenching like he has to physically restrain himself from touching his dick.

“Okay,” Dean says, aiming for calm and feeling anything but. “Okay, we can do this. Just a curse, right? Okay. Fine. We know how to deal with curses.” He pauses. Blinks. Shit, how _do_ they deal with curses? “Uh,” he reasons wildly, “myrtle leaves?” That’s for negating bloodwork, right?

Sam yanks the glovebox open and grabs the ziplock bag of dried herbs they store there for emergencies. He takes a fistful of leaves, crushing them haphazardly between the heels of his palms, and then jams the pungent concoction up his nose.

“I think you’re supposed to burn those,” Dean tries, and Sam glares at him so fiercely he immediately changes tack. “Is it working?”

“Hng,” Sam grunts. His fingernails scrape roughly against Baby’s dash and his shoulders shudder, which Dean takes to mean that the herbs are not, in fact, working.

“There’s a witch in Little Springs,” Dean says, not looking at Sam’s straining jeans but also really not looking that hard at the road, either. His eyes are somewhere in between, torn between _Sam’s injured Sam’s injured Sam’s injured_ and _Sam’s dick is hard Sam’s dick is hard._

“I’m not going to make it to Little Springs,” Sam says between his teeth. “I think it’s—ah, shit, I think it’s trying to kill me.” Every muscle is clenched. There are beads of sweat on his temples and growing dark stains all down the back and sides of his shirt. He pants hard, thunking his head into the dash again, and then he grabs for himself. And same as last time, his erection goes down as soon as he touches it.

“Sam—” Dean says, and Sam fucking _screams._

Dean hits the brakes and skids to the shoulder on instinct, but he barely has time to reach for Sam before Sam’s bellowing, “KEEP DRIVING!”

Dean recoils like he’s been slapped. He puts his hands back on the wheel and puts Baby back into drive so fast she’s barely even fully stopped. And she smells like burned rubber but she goes, of course, and Sam rolls over the backrest and onto the rear seat again.

“Sam—”

“Keep. Fucking. Driving.”

Dean doesn’t know what else to say. He presses his foot to the floor and points Baby to the closest witch and thinks to himself, _No way this is how we go._

Sam makes awful animal noises in the backseat, grunting and slapping the leather like a fish thrashing on a hook. Dean feels like his face has shrunk down to just his eyes, trained diligently on the road, and his ears, trained diligently on Sam.

Sam heaves for air so hard it’s almost more a shout than a real breath, and his hands scrabble for the back of Dean’s shoulders. Dean automatically reaches for him, grabs his fingers and clutches hard.

“S’okay,” he soothes. “You won’t die before we get to—”

And then Sam yanks Dean’s hand over the back of the seat, and curls Dean’s hand into a loose fist, and pushes Dean’s loose fist over something hot and hard, forcing his fingers closed around it.

“FUCK!” Sam screams, and almost before Dean’s fully realised what’s happening, there’s something wet splattering over his fingers.

 _Is that—_ Dean thinks, and then opens up a basement in his brain and drops the thought in there, never to be seen again. He did not just touch Sam’s dick. That was not Sam’s dick that he touched. Sam didn’t come immediately upon feeling Dean’s fingers on his dick, no sir.

He can’t quite come up with a plausible alternative, but you know what? He doesn’t need one.

Sam’s making little half-formed noises, almost sobs. “Oh God,” he’s saying, “I think that, I think, I, I think that did it.”

_You just came with my fingers on your dick._

“Okay,” Dean says.

_You came in less than a second._

_Nope. Not going there._

“Are you feeling better?”

Sam’s breathing calms, though only a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I… Thanks.”

There’s a small house on the left side of the road. They pass it in a blur. Dean takes the packet of Kleenex and opens it one-handed, clumsily withdrawing a tissue. They’ll be at Little Springs at dawn. He fists his hand with the tissue between fingertips and palm, scrubbing at the… at the mess. The mess that has a Completely Unknown Origin Which He Will Never Ever Think About.

They pass another car, going in the opposite direction. He’s not thinking about anything except driving. The tissue is wet. He winds the window down and throws it out. He can worry about his impact on the environment for the next few hundred miles. There’s nothing else to be thinking about. Nothing else at all.

 _I just put my hand on Sam’s dick and felt him come and felt how hot he was and felt how hard he was and felt him_ come, _felt him come in my hand like—_

Nothing else at all to be thinking about.

Sam passes out in the backseat. And Dean continues to think his Nothing Thoughts. They’re going to go find a witch. They’re going to eat a greasy burger. They’re going to make it back to the bunker and they are never, ever going to talk about this.

And then Sam wakes up.

“Dean,” he says, and he barely makes it all the way through the syllable but Dean knows, he _knows._

“I don’t—” he says. Sam gropes for his shoulder, fumbles down to his bicep and drags his arm over the back of the seat.

“Dean, I— _fuck.”_

There appear to be quite a number of things happening in Dean’s brain, but not a single one of them makes it past Go to collect $200. Sam curls Dean’s hand into a loose fist. Again. Sam pushes Dean’s fist onto his— _fuck, fuck, Jesus, shit, fuck_ —onto his _cock._ Dean whimpers out loud.

“Oh, God,” Sam sobs. “Oh. God, it feels so—” His hands drop away from Dean’s, and then there’s nothing keeping Dean’s hand in place. He’s stretched awkwardly with one hand on the wheel and one over the backseat on Sam’s… on _Sam._ He should let go. He should take his hand back and drive like Hades.

He doesn’t take his hand back.

Sam’s cock is proportionate, he thinks to himself. The thought appears fully formed in his mind, like it’s been there all along. Sam is big. Sam is hard, and wanting, and so hot he might genuinely be burning himself out.

That’s… Yeah, that’s not right. Somehow just the too-hot feel of Sam (never mind _which_ part of Sam) is enough to wrestle his instincts into submission, so instead of jerking away and sprinting for the nearest bottle of whiskey he just… doesn’t. Sam needs his help. Dean’s going to help him. And he’s going to do it without thinking too hard about it.

The hand that is on Sam’s cock moves. Dean notes the movement dispassionately, because it has nothing to do with him. It’s happening… elsewhere. Someone else’s hand.

The hand tightens fractionally, makes a small jerking motion. It’s difficult from this angle. Sam’s hands claw at him. He’s… saying some things. He’s saying things that make absolutely no impact. Dean’s name, mostly. And enough blasphemy to make the devil blush.

And, oh. Please, he’s saying. Please, Dean, please.

Dean looks steadily out the front windscreen.

The hand that does not belong to Dean pumps fitfully. Fingertips glancing against the underside of the cockhead: the place where Dean’s own dick is sensitive.

 _“Dean,”_ Sam cries, in a way that could be miserable but maybe isn’t miserable at all. His arms wrap around Dean’s chest from behind, and he thrusts jerkily.

 _Nope,_ Dean thinks, staring doggedly ahead.

Sam comes. He shudders, lurching against Dean and the car seat and everything.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, dragging rough breaths in through his nose.

“Yeah,” Dean says. Weakly.

Sam passes out with his arms wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, his forehead pressed into the back of Dean’s neck. His nose tickles the hair at the base of Dean’s skull. His fingertips brush lightly over the front of Dean’s shirt.

Dean… doesn’t move his hand. There doesn’t seem to be any point. Sam’s softer, but not _soft._ Maybe this is what he’s like with his… with his _girlfriends._ Maybe Sam’s got enough gigantor blood in him that he actually can go for a few rounds in a row. But Dean doubts it. This is the curse. And Dean’s the only one around. So the curse is for Dean. _Sam_ is for Dean.

He drives with just his left hand, watching the odometer trickle leisurely upwards. They’re never going to get to Little Springs before dawn. 

He feels Sam waking before Sam even says anything. His cock twitches and Dean’s hand closes automatically. Sam jerks up into him before he’s even fully conscious.

“Ah,” he groans. “It hurts, oh, how does it still hurt?”

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him. This is just another thing that he can do for his brother. Just another way to save him. “I’m here, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay.”

It takes a little longer, this time. He really has to work him. Sam’s sensitive along the underside of his cock, and right at the base. These are things that Dean learns quick. Sam is loud. Sam is _vocal._

He drags Sam over the edge again, and Sam passes out with his lips pressed into the place where Dean’s neck becomes his shoulders. If Sam was in his right mind he would be able to feel the thundering of Dean’s heart.

Sam’s sleep is markedly shorter.

It takes more effort to push him into orgasm.

Dean manages anyway.

And then Sam’s only out for a few minutes, and this time he’s almost writhing in pain before Dean manages to push him over again.

They arrive in Little Springs, and Dean picks the lock on the witch’s door.

It takes him all of thirty seconds to figure out that there’s no one home. The dust is half an inch thick in the upstairs bedroom. She’s moved on. He buries his face in a set of heavy curtains and screams every curse word he knows.

And then he goes back downstairs.

He stands in the doorway of the empty house and looks back at the car: at Sam already writhing in the back seat, hands clawed into fists around the top of the open door, head thrown back in agony.

He sees himself from outside his body. Dean Winchester, 6’1”, wearing plaid and denim, gun in the back of his jeans. He sees himself look into the empty house. The door has a strong lock on it. If he latched it properly there’s no way Sam would be able to get in. He would be safe, if he just locked the door behind him.

“Dean,” Sam cries, plaintive. The rising sun turns the whole street golden.

Dean sees himself step out of the house, and close the door carefully behind him. He walks towards the car, hands loose at his sides.

“Okay, Sam,” he says. He gets in the front seat. He knows what he has to do now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He jerks Sam off twice, just in the time it takes to leave. Sam barely even pauses between each one. He’s shaking hard already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to metarachel for the beta read! 😙

“Where’s the… _ah,_ the witch?”

“Not here. We’ll get help outside of town.”

He jerks Sam off twice, just in the time it takes to leave. Sam barely even pauses between each one. He’s shaking hard already.

“Dean,” he says, twitching, reaching for Dean’s hand. “Where’s the— _ahh,_ you said there’d be help.”

“There is,” Dean says simply, and he pulls the car to the side of the road, into a gravel pit behind some trees. He turns the keys, but leaves them in the ignition, and then he gets out of the car, walks to the back door, and slides in beside Sam.

Sam’s on him in an instant. “I need,” he says. “I need—”

“Yeah. I know.” He lets Sam push him back against the seat and straddle his thighs. He puts his hands very carefully on Sam’s hips, and then less carefully on his waist. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think about the cock Sam is jerking against his belly, so close and so hard it feels like he’s trying to dig his way deeper. Dean slides his hands from Sam’s waist, round to his front.

“Dean—!”

“You’re okay,” Dean says, half to himself and half to Sam. The shape of Sam’s cock is already familiar. And that’s… That’s just another thing to add to the pile of Nope that he’s building. He curls his fingers.

Sam’s bowed over him, bent right over his head to stop from banging into Baby’s ceiling. He’s thrusting into Dean’s belly and hands with so much force Dean’s genuinely going to be bruised after this.

Sam comes, somehow. Maybe the curse is stopping him from running dry. He comes all over the front of Dean’s shirt— _fuck that’s gross_ —so Dean strips it off completely, and then uses the momentary reprieve to shove his pants down to his ankles, as well. He undresses Sam as efficiently as he knows how, still not thinking. Sam moves fitfully on his lap, happy to be manoeuvred only in the few seconds of calm between orgasms. Dean tries to be as clinical as possible, but Sam’s making… _noises._

“Witches, huh?” Dean jokes, but the line fails to land. Sam drops onto him fully. Undeniably naked. Dean tries not to look, but there’s not really anywhere else to turn his head. Sam is so freaking huge.

“Make me,” Sam begs, grabbing for Dean’s hands. His breath is coming sharp and hard. “Why isn’t it stopping?”

Dean closes his eyes, but that’s somehow even worse because now the only thing to focus on is the wet slide of Sam’s cock beneath his fingers. The fact that there’s so much naked _skin_ touching his own. Sam’s dick is wet and Dean almost gags before he puts the knowledge of what the wetness is into the Underground Brain Basement.

“I think,” he says, “that the curse wants something… more.”

“More,” Sam agrees, without really seeming to parse the word. Dean gently tries to extricate himself. He pulls away and Sam makes a sharp cry and clutches for his head, his shoulders. “More,” he says again, and then he shoves down against the back of Dean’s neck and rises up to meet him and Dean’s about to say “Wait,” but what he ends up saying is just the “W—” because the head of Sam’s cock bumps against his bottom lip and it hits him like a stack of bricks:

That is his _brother’s cock._ That’s _Sam’s cock._ They’re naked in the backseat and Sam’s plastered against him, and it’s like the car radio was set to “seek” and has only just found a station: a blast of noise washes over him. He pictures Sammy when he was just a kid, when Dean used to change his fucking diapers because he was more of a father than John ever was and—

He gags, body absolutely revolting at the combination of _Sammy_ and _Dean_ in this context; in _any_ context.

And then he gags again because Sam’s cock goes into his gaping mouth and _Jesus fuck oh god, no._

_This isn’t what he meant by ‘more!’_

Sam tastes like. Oh god. He tastes like _things_. Dean knows exactly what he tastes like. He’s come so many times over the last few hours. He’s dripping in it. He tastes like _come._

Dean gags again. And then again. He shoves uselessly at Sam’s hips, and Sam shoves back, for a moment lurching _further in_ and Dean’s lips stretch around him and he can’t get any air. The head of Sam’s dick pokes into the inside of his cheek, and then down behind his molars, and his eyes sting and he thinks he’s about to puke but Sam makes that awfully familiar sound—the sound of him _coming_ —and there it is, a splash of something hot on the back of his tongue, nowhere to go but down, choking and awful the whole way. Dean thrashes and manages to shove Sam back, just a bit, and he whips his head to the side just as Sam pulls out so the last bit gets on his lower lip. Dean fumbles for the door and spills out onto the gravel, and he chokes and gasps right there in the morning sun, buck naked and cold with sweat and horror, spitting bile and come and trying to figure out if it’s better to throw everything up or keep everything down.

He doesn’t get the chance to decide.

“Dean,” Sam wails, and then Sam’s on him, carrying both their bodies into the rough ground. Sam’s cock is so hard it feels like he hasn’t come in a year, when in fact it’s been _seconds._ It rubs against the base of Dean’s spine and then between the cheeks of Dean’s ass. It’s not possible for a dick to be evil but this curse is. This feels _malicious._

Sam thrusts with no coordination, and his cock glances off Dean’s hole which… that had actually been where Dean had been trying to take things, though admittedly with far less clarity. He’d had some formless kind of idea that Sam was going to need to break this spell inside Dean, somehow, though he hadn’t gotten to the part of figuring out the _How_ or the… the _other_ kind of _How._

Clearly, his mouth hadn’t been enough.

He makes a rough sound against the gravel and Sam echoes it back louder, and with even less articulation.

“Yeah,” Dean tells him, his voice so coarse he almost sounds ill. He coughs and spits up onto the ground, then tries to get his knees under him to push Sam away. Sam makes it obvious that he’s in no state to be pushed anywhere, his eyes so glazed it’s possible he doesn’t even know where he is right now, or who he’s got under him.

That’s… that’ll be a bridge they can burn on the other side of this mess.

Dean does manage, somehow, to get Sam back into the car. Both their knees are scraped red from the gravel and he ranks their chances of getting arrested slightly lower behind closed car doors than out in the open, even if they’re out of town.

They’re sort of tangled up together in the back seat, without any real structure or logic. There’s a whole lot of naked skin right up against his side and he breathes hard through his nose to stop himself spiralling back down that particular hell-road. He can get through this. He can get through this if he just doesn’t think about it.

Sam thrusts desperately against his hip and Dean roots around for something he can use to make the next bit (his brain skitters nervously away from calling it anything concrete) a little more bearable. Whiskey would be preferable. But he’s also kind of vaguely aware that he’ll need something slippery, too. There’s no lube in the car but he keeps gun oil under the front seat, and that’ll have to do.

Sam’s shuddering under him, trying to press up into his body, making half-vocalisations in the back of his throat like he’s seconds from screaming.

“I know,” Dean tells him, rooting around for the tiny little bottle. “I’m going, I’m going.” He finds what he’s looking for and squeezes a dollop onto his fingers, rubbing them together. What now? Fuck. For the first time in his life he’s concerned about his _lack_ of porn-viewing. Surely there are guys who know how this is supposed to go.

“Deeaaaan!” Sam wails, and he comes messily between them. Dean has a moment to be amazed all over again at just how much he seems to be able to come. And then Sam grits his teeth through a scream and he’s _already_ rocking into Dean again, thrashing like it’s too painful to bear but he can’t stand not touching him anyway.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ They are fresh fucking OUT of time.

He reaches behind himself, doing some calculations based on zero data about exactly how he should start this. One finger? Two? _Three?_

Sam screams, and he jams two fingers against his asshole, ready to do anything so he never has to hear that sound again.

His fingers don’t… _fuck, ow_ … they don’t _go._ He wiggles, gets one fingertip in and then squirms the other in alongside it and he’s so focussed on just making it happen that he doesn’t really notice that he’s _in_ until he’s already there.

 _If Dad saw him now—_ he thinks, and then ruthlessly cuts the thought before he can reach any conclusion because Dad is dead and it’s just him and Sammy, now, and Sam’s death-pale everywhere except the high of his cheeks, and his cock.

And just like always, it’s Dean’s job to save him.

Dean jams his fingers as far as they can go, and it hurts but it’s not actually the worst hurt he’s experienced. He thought this would be awful, and it is—it’s disgusting. Really, truly, sickening. It feels wrong, way too intrusive. He’s in his own _ass_ and he’s wrapped around his naked brother. But the pain, he’s surprised to find, is completely manageable. A tiny sting, and a deep kind of ache that he can definitely ignore; so he does.

Sam’s making half-choked gasps like he’s running out of oxygen, which means he’s probably running out of _time,_ so Dean yanks his fingers out, and wipes the rest of the oil on Sam’s dick, and then he’s saying, “Okay, Sam, okay, come on, one more, you can do it, sorry I took so long, I’m here, I’m here.”

He gets kind of semi in position, trying to figure out how to make the combination of their bodies work by feel alone.

“If you remember this later,” he pants, swinging one leg over Sam’s waist to straddle him. “I’m sorry.” He pauses, readjusts. “Or I forgive you. Whichever one you need to hear.” He readjusts again. In the end he has to reach between his legs to grab Sam’s dick and angle it where it’s supposed to go. Half his brain is busy setting fire to the other half but he can do this, he can, he _can._

He can’t.

He stalls right there, with one hand braced on the car door and one around Sam’s cock and the big flushed head of it resting right there at his asshole and—

He can’t. He can’t. Not even to save Sam’s life.

He _has to._ He _wants to._ He’s yelling at himself to do it but nothing’s moving. He looks down at Sam, wide-eyed, but Sam’s not really looking back. His eyes are all pupil.

“I—” he says.

And then Sam thrusts sharply up, sliding through the ring of his fingers and shoving hard _(too hard too hard oh fuck)_ inside.

“FuuuuUUUUUUUUUUARRKKK!” Dean bellows. How had he possibly thought this was going to be painless? It feels like a sledgehammer has swung straight into his hips, driving up from the underside to get there.

Sam screams with him, though in a different octave, and jolts even higher, chasing Dean’s body as he instinctively tries to get away. Baby’s ceiling stops him from going more than a few inches and then Sam’s shoving and shoving and _shoving and what the hell does he have down there? The Eiffel Tower?_

He gets the half-coherent idea that he _should have used more fucking oil._ He grabs for it now and upends it over his hands, trying to rub some of it where it needs to go. Mostly it goes on Sam’s hips and thighs but some of it must make it to his cock because Sam lurches one more time and he’s fully in. He’s _in_ Dean. Dean’s ass is against his thighs. It’s not heroic or easy or fucking _pleasurable,_ it just hurts. It _hurts._ Dean’s so full of Sam and every inch of the fullness is another inch of his body throbbing, aching with the spread. His knees give out for a moment and he goes down, all his weight going onto the place he’s been speared open. He gets his legs under him again with a grit-teeth scream, hoping Sam doesn’t remember this. He’s pretty sure his eyes are watering.

Sam jerks out then rams back in, _hard,_ and Dean feels like his insides get sucked out then squelched back in just to be sucked out again when Sam yanks back for a second time. His hips piston wildly, like a double-bladed saw trying to hack apart something soft and squishy from the inside. It hurts so bad he’s honestly concerned about whether he’s going to be able to ever walk again. He’s clawing at the ceiling uselessly, his body as far from Sam’s as it can get with _nowhere else to go,_ and Sam is bent all kinds of crazy angles to follow him up, wrecking everything between Dean’s legs as he does. He’s panting so fast he’s at risk of hyperventilating into unconsciousness, but it doesn’t matter as long as he comes first.

 _It’s almost over,_ Dean thinks to himself, like a mantra, cheek pressed to Baby’s ceiling and eyes squeezed shut. _It’s almost fucking over._

And then Sam passes

the fuck

out.

It takes Dean a moment to notice that the pain, though constant, has changed in intensity.

“What?” he says. Then, “Sam? SAMMY?!”

Sam doesn’t respond. He’s completely zonked out. His hands fall off Dean’s hips (when had they gotten there) and his head lolls to the side, mouth parted. Dean puts a hand on his chest and his heart is juddering wildly, barely rhythmic enough to even be called a heartbeat.

He’s still undeniably hard.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

“FUCK THIIIIS,” Dean bellows, and he rises up on shaking thighs, Sam’s dick sliding awfully out of him as he goes. And then he drops back down with a scream. He can scream all he wants now. There’s no one to hear him. And it doesn’t matter how much it hurts because Sam might literally be seconds from death and Dean just needs to _Get This Done._

He jerks himself up and down, faster, faster, as fast as his trembling legs can go. His limp cock smacks wetly on Sam’s belly with every downward pass. He braces one hand on the car door and one on Sam’s chest, desperate to keep that wild-awful-hummingbird thrum of his heart going.

“Come on,” he begs. “Sam, you’ve gotta— _aargh_ —you’ve gotta _come!”_

He lifts up, drops down, lifts, drops, fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ until he can’t even feel Sam’s cock sliding in and out anymore: it’s just one additional horror in an absolute tidal wave of pain. He can’t pick apart any single stimulus anywhere below his ribs.

He slaps Sam across the face. Backhands him the other way.

“WAKE UP!” he bellows. “WAKE UP YOU ASSHOLE AND FUCKING COME IN MY ASS!”

He slaps Sam again, and Sam’s eyes blink blearily open. “Dea—?” he slurs, and then his face scrunches up and it’s happening, it’s fucking happening, Dean can _feel_ the wash of it inside him, the cool breeze of a curse finally breaking.

Sam clenches up and curses fitfully, shaking apart under him, and Dean topples slowly sideways, suddenly completely incapable of holding himself up for a single fucking second longer.

He lands in the footwell. Everything is… agony. His legs are shaking and his hand is shaking when he brings it to his face to wipe at his cheeks. He finds something crusty there as well, and he just… stops caring. He can vaguely hear movement above him. Sam, maybe. The sound of retching. Liquid splashing against gravel. Then hands are on him and he closes his eyes.

It hurts. Everything fucking hurts.

_Sam had his dick in Dean’s ass._

“Oh my god,” Sam’s saying, from way across an ocean. Trembling hands are on the inside of his thighs. “Dean, shit, oh god, let me, you’re, oh god you’re bleeding.”

Sam’s gone again. No doubt looking for the first aid kit. Dean hopes like hell they still have the strong painkillers in there. And the whiskey.

He’s going to need a lot of whiskey.

“Witches,” he curses, slurring straight into the carpet.

He passes out to the sound of Sam retching again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, might I recommend one of my all time favourites: [Nothing Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703720) by WhoopsOK, featuring all the Fuck Or Die Wincest your porny hearts could desire :D You really really won't regret it!
> 
> EDIT 22/04/2020: troubleseeker has written a continuation of this fic in which Dean is the one to get cursed. HOT DAMN you guys. Just. WOW. It's so perfect. You can read the continuation here: [Come Back Again, Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772592)  
> Go give trouble some love!
> 
> EDIT 02/06/2020: Another amazing rec! Check out thefriendlypigeon's [NSFW art featuring cursed!sam wincest 😈😈](https://twitter.com/_FriskyPigeon/status/1278420241287122944?s=19)


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